Wanting Phobos
by ACompanyofSwans
Summary: Three people who desire Prince Phobos go to twisted lengths to fulfill their desire. Cedric/Phobos/Elyon. Extremely dark/mature, contains theme of homsexuality, rape, undertones of incest, both female and male masturbation, and self harm. Not gratuitous
1. Cedric

"I cannot believe I'm doing this," sighed Elyon, looking into her mirror in distress. She still couldn't believe that this was happening.

"What, chillin' with the villain again?" quipped Irma nonchalantly. "Well ,actually . . . me neither" she admitted.

A month ago, Meridian had come under attack from remnants of the sorceress Nerissa's so called 'Knights of Vengeance'. Elyon and the Guardians felt more out of their depth than they ever had. So after much kicking and screaming on Elyon's part, the reluctant princess had eventually decided to plead with her brother and the snake general for their expertise.

As is often the case, the polar opposites made a formidable force, and the enemy had been defeated. As a show of good grace, Cedric, Phobos and the others had been permitted to attend a celebratory ball tonight.

"You should have seen his smug face when I asked him to help," grumbled Elyon, ferociously attacking her hair with a brush.

"I can imagine," chuckled Hay Lin, sketching in the corner, seemingly oblivious to the maids that were fussing around her long, inky black hair. Even after everything she had been through, nothing ever seemed to faze the little Wind guardian. She just floated through life like a cloud.

Elyon smiled in spite of herself. Although she was closer to Cornelia than anyone else, she had to privately admit to herself that Hay Lin was simply an easier person to be around. She wasn't easily offended, and often proved herself to be the voice of reason. Elyon had felt lucky to have the girl by her side.

"Well, it's just for tonight I suppose," said Elyon-Hay Lin's good spirits were infectious.

"How difficult could one night possibly be?"

"My Lord, I am surprised that your sister agreed to let us attend. She could be planning something."

"Elyon doesn't have the capacity for evil scheming," drawled Phobos lazily. "She is simply doing what royal etiquette demands of her. I would expect nothing less from a lady of our family."

"With all due respect, it may be unwise to underestimate your sister. She is not nearly as naïve as she was when she first came to Meridian. You saw to that."

"Yes, I suppose I did," chuckled Phobos. "I admit that I was surprised too-to see how guarded, even suspicious, she'd become. Be on your guard if it makes you feel better, but do try to enjoy the night, won't you? It's been a long time since we've been able to attend a proper royal function."

Cedric had to admit that he had missed the refinement of the palace while being imprisoned, thus afew hours later he found himself freshly bathed, in formal dress, brimming wine glass in hand, preparing to toast the Queen of Meridian when she entered down the steps. The trumpets sounded, and he automatically straightened his back.

"Announcing her majesty Elyon Escanor, Queen of Meridian!" called out the knave, and stepped back respectfully to permit Elyon access to the staircase. When she appeared, and began her descent, Cedric froze.

When he had been working with Elyon, she was dressed simply, sometimes even in clothes her friends bought her from Earth, hair tied haphazardly back, dark circles under her eyes. Now, her hair tumbled freely down to her waist, and she was dressed in an extremely dark red dress, so dark it was almost black. And there was something disturbingly . . . familiar about the picture. Cedric glanced at his prince, then at Elyon, then back again. It was unmistakable. He cursed himself for not noticing the resemblance before now. The colour had drained from Elyon's hair, due to Meridian's lack of sunlight during Winter. It was poker straight, but still had some volume. Her features were no longer round and girly, but were sharp chiselled, and regal looking. And in that dark red dress, so familiar to the robes the man beside Cedric favoured . . .

"But it isn't identical," Cedric mentally tried to persuade himself. "That feminine jawline, the purple eyes . . . Phobos' eyes were green . . ." Then he started berating himself. It was a secret rule of his that he must never think of his master's mesmerizing eyes.

But despite these slight differences-the small details that marked out one as female and one as male-there was no denying that the resemblance between Elyon and her brother was uncanny. This was underlined by an idle, throwaway comment from Miranda;

"Elyon has grown to take after her brother, hasn't she?"

Miranda was totally ignorant of the internal conflict she was causing Cedric. Managing to create some noise of assent to her comment in the back of his throat, he shut his eyes in agony. As if it wasn't hard enough to have _one_ of those beautiful creatures in close proximity . . . now he had to put up with two of them.

Elyon raised her hands slightly when she reached the bottom of the stairs, curving her wrists upwards. The elegant gesture respectfully commanded silence, which Elyon was granted. She said afew words about Meridian's success, and the importance of working together, nodding slightly in the direction of Phobos and his minions. On this point, Cedric could tell that Elyon was lying through her teeth. But, being an incurably villain, this impressed the snake lord. Elyon was a politician now, wise, and canny to the way people thought and reacted. She was playing up a situation that had caused her some bad publicity during the struggle (Meridian's people having been even less inclined to forgive Phobos than Elyon herself), and using it to her advantage. Essentially, she was, albeit very nicely, saying, "Told you so." But right now, Cedric really didn't need another factor that reminded him of Phobos when he looked at Elyon.

After afew courses of the finest Meridian cuisine (Elyon having commissioned some very talented chefs and caterers for the night), the Queen politely detached herself from conversation with a couple of ageing aristocrats that flanked her at the head of the table, manoeuvred through afew couples that were beginning to dance, and wandered into the Rose Garden. As she left the noise, gaudy sights and smells of the party behind, and entered the peaceful tranquillity, gentle, unoffending colours, and softly scented flowers of the outdoors, she began to calm down and relax. Elyon stood beside a little pond Cornelia and Irma had put together for her as a birthday present two years ago, and watched the silvery fish and frogs swim silently under the surface.

"So far, so good," Elyon summarised, as she reflected on the celebrations. Although some of the nobles had initially seemed uneasy in the company of the former ruler, Phobos had presented his best _faux charmont_ face, and had put them at their ease. Elyon supposed that Phobos' ability to charm and manipulate would never leave him. She had to hand it to the Prince, sleazy though she found him, he was the perfect con artist. At least now she was wise to his ways. There had been more than one occasion during various battles when she had coldly rebuffed the (obviously insincere) hand of friendship Phobos tried to extend.

Phobos had seemed surprised at Elyon's new savvy ways. Well, he shouldn't be. As a result, Elyon was far more suspicious than she used to be, though she might present a smiling, welcoming face to new politicians. Being a Queen brings many risks, so Elyon was partly grateful that Phobos had instilled this . . . coldness in her. On the other hand, it scared her that she was becoming like him. Presenting personas that were in contrast with how she really felt or intended. And it didn't help that every day, she looked more like him. Gazing at her distorted reflection in the miniature waterfall that cascaded into the pond now, the resemblance was frightening.

Elyon leaned against the willow tree beside the pond and closed her eyes for a moment. The rippling of the water was like a lullaby, and she could only vaguely hear the music from the festivities gently swelling and falling. She could almost fall asleep. Everything was so peaceful.

Cedric noticed the lovely young Queen demurely excuse herself and wander into the garden. For no particular reason, almost as if by compulsion from some unknown force. He followed her. Even in his clumsy human form, Cedric was graceful, and his footsteps made no noise.

Standing still as a stag when it hears hunters, Cedric observed Elyon, as she reflected by the water's edge. She was beautiful. No doubt there were many suitors who desired her hand in marriage, for reasons other than social status and wealth. From behind . . . the long, pale hair, the height, the scarlet attire . . . so alike . . .

Elyon felt a pair of hands clutch either side of her waist and shove her face first against the willow tree. She heard a voice muttering enchantments, so scream though she did, no one heard. And her limbs felt sluggish and lazy . . . her magic could have easily deflected this mans' enchantments and taught him a lesson he would be lucky to survive, but first she needed the will to use it. And now, the primary emotion in her head was pure, animalistic panic. She thrashed and kicked, but to little avail. Upon her third scream, Cedric (for of course it was he) shoved a golden hand over her mouth. It was so distracting. He wanted nothing to detract from the illusion he created for himself. As he partially undid Elyon's corset, a shiver went up his spine at the sight of the pale, slender back and shoulderbones. A sight he had seen so many times as he was called to the bathing chambers . . . he attacked the shoulder blades ferociously with his mouth, and slid the material of Elyon skirt up, higher and higher.

Cedric was not normally a gentle lover, but he did take time to prepare his subject a little, coating his fingers in salivia. Only the best for the object of his desires. Despite these coarse attentions, Elyon felt that she would pass out from the pain, and when Cedric shoved his length inside her, she went limp for a moment. Her abused anal canal was on fire. However it was over in a matter of minutes, Cedric having waited so long for this moment, like a Priest awaiting his reward for a life of celibacy and self restraint.

Cedric arched violently against Elyon, pushing her further into the bark of the tree. Elyon was dimly aware of the earthy smell and rough texture. And the voice. The voice, filled with longing and terrible triumph, screaming one name towards the heavens. One name, whose owner had haunted his thoughts day and night ever since he could remember. The long, platinum tendrils of hair, the porcelain skin-it was so close to what Cedric wanted, and for his starved libido, it was a damn satisfying second best.

Elyon leaned against the tree in shock, as the milky, white liquid rang down the backs of her legs.

"Cedric?"

Cedric automatically lifted his head and sought the source of the call that beckoned him. There was a tall, shadowy figure in the distance, in the open doorway at the rear of the palace. He hastily straightened himself, fixed his robes, and strode briskly through the garden, not sparing Elyon so much as a second glance. Only a slight trembling around the knees would have betrayed his actions, and they were hidden beneath his green dress robes.


	2. Elyon

In the wake of Cedric's departure, an abandoned Elyon tried to stand without the tree for support. Her already spindly legs gave way beneath her. Her torso felt like it weighed a dead tonne. Even her head felt like it would crush her neck. But it was nothing compared to the pain in her rear. Elyon, with shaking fingers, tied her corset, covered her modesty, and entered the castle through another, more humbler door. One that meant she wouldn't have to face the stares and questions of her guests.

It seemed to take a century for Elyon to ascend the stone steps to the hallway containing her bedchamber. She closed the door behind her, faced with her bed, and all her familiar possessions. As if nothing had happened. Her hairbrush, with the same silvery strands of hair from when she had styled it - how long ago had that been? Couldn't have been more than afew hours. Her simple 'day' dress thrown casually over a chair, awaiting a maid's service. With a sudden burst of manic energy, Elyon ran to her en suite, and drew a bath. Scorching hot water. The kind of bath that demanded she only begin by dipping in a toe, then slowly lower the rest of her body underneath the surface, as she savoured the burning sensation on her skin.

Careful not to irritate the aches and pains, Elyon calmly and methodically bathed herself, removing any remnants from what had transpired that evening. She would be just like her hairbrush on the dressing table, or the rumpled dress on the chair. Entirely indifferent, still a part in the process of daily life. She wrapped herself in a fluffy, white dressing gown and stood before the wall-length mirror in her bathroom, covered in steam though it was. Elyon tried to simultaneously relax her eyes and squint. This, combined with the veneer of steam that coated the mirror, distorted her reflection . . . the resemblance seemed even more uncanny. Without really thinking why, Elyon let her dressing gown fall to the floor.

She ignored the gentle swell of her chest, the smooth skin that lay beneath her belly and between her legs. Oh God. Her reflection might have easily been substituted for _his_.

Elyon placed a slim hand on her stomach, and ran it down to that patch of skin. Underneath . . . wet. It felt good. Elyon rubbed, as first gently, then more aggressively, inserting in turn three fingers. It made her forget the awful crime committed against her that night, but made her remember another awful crime that she herself committed every day in her mind. A crime against nature, a crime against everything that was normal and right.

When it came to the Queen's turn to climax that night, she leaned desperately against the mirror. The already hardened nipples stiffened further at the contact with the glass, as she tried to embrace her own reflection, pretending that it was another body. And the name at her lips was the same name, the same name that had already been screamed with such rapture that same night.

As the trembling ceased, Elyon looked at herself. Even paler than usual, shaking, ashamed. Nothing like the tall, proud stature of the man whose name she had called with such desperation. In a fit of rage, Elyon smashed the mirror with her fist. The shards fell to the floor. Elyon sank slowly to join them, the tiled floor raising goosebumps on her thighs, cooling her sweat drenched skin. She picked up a shard, seeing only the gleaming reflection of her eye. They were a different colour and shape from his-much wider and less catlike. Good. Another shard. This time, her elegant nose. Well now, that wasn't any good at all. Practically identical to his. That would never do. So Elyon, gripping the hard in her hand, paying no mind as it cut into her palm, slowly moved it in a graceful pattern down her arm, admiring the way the scarlet blood contrasted with the whiteness of her skin.

It was like a terrible work of art. The beautiful young girl, picking up shards of glass by turn, and critically examining different elements of her reflection. Punishing herself if they were too alike to the features of the man she concentrated on in her tortured mind. She cut long into the night.


	3. Phobos

In another room, Phobos himself observed his own reflection, blissfully unaware of the pain and degradation he had (for once) inadvertently caused in the last few hours. There was no criticism in his stare, merely admiration. True, the Prince was a very vain man, but one could not blame him for admiring his own beauty. A well toned, muscular body, a handsome, powerful face, long, gorgeous hair that begged to be stroked and played with. Phobos, unknowingly mimicking the actions of his unfortunate sister earlier, placed his hand on his stomach, and slid it down to what lay between his legs, moaning and panting as he rubbed and squeezed himself in just the way he liked it.

It was narcissism at its best. Phobos clutching his own reflection in the same way Elyon had done, in the same way Cedric had done to her earlier. But unlike these other two souls, Phobos found genuine satisfaction. For he did hold the man that_ he_ loved most in the world, right there in his own arms.

And as the third climax of the night was reached, that same name was also bugled to the heavens for the third time.

"Phobos."


End file.
